


The Haunted Palace

by Morgause1



Category: Original Work, POE Edgar Allan - Works
Genre: Angst, Beauty - Freeform, Dark, Dark Fairytale, Depression, Dreams, Gothic, Hope, Horror, Inspired by Edgar Allan Poe, Magic, Monsters, Other, Philosophy, Psychology, Romanticism, archetypal symbols, the subconscious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 14:42:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13572714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgause1/pseuds/Morgause1
Summary: Beyond the Abyss there stands the Lady's castle, a dream-place of beauty and magic. But when the lilacs wither and darkness falls, the Slave must leave the castle in a last-ditch attempt to save his love.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The quoted poem is The Haunted Palace by Edgar Allan Poe.

> In the greenest of our valleys
> 
>    By good angels tenanted,
> 
> Once a fair and stately palace—
> 
>    Radiant palace—reared its head.
> 
> In the monarch Thought’s dominion,
> 
>    It stood there!
> 
> Never seraph spread a pinion
> 
>    Over fabric half so fair!

 

The slave always knew when his mistress was about to arrive.

He’d spend his days in relative calm, going through what little chores were left to him in her absence. But sometimes he’d start missing her. He had learned to recognize this feeling throughout the countless years of his existence. It would grow inside him day by day, until he, overcome with an agonizing longing, would run to alert the kitchens of her coming, to prepare her rooms, and draw a steaming bubble bath. And then, just when he had finished, she would appear.

She always came at dusk, walking slowly over the stone bridge that spanned the abyss at the foot of the castle. She glided so effortlessly over the rocks and brambles that the slave was never completely certain that her bare feet even touched the ground. Standing on the parapet, the slave watched her come with an aching need. She was of medium stature and medium build and her face was not much more than handsome, but she would shine, a glimmering star in the twilight, a center of gravity that anchored everything else in its place. Realities spun around her, weaved in her bellowing cloak and hair, formed and were instantly gone. To him, she was stunning.

By the time she reached the castle, he was already down there, kneeling by the open gates.

“Hello, my darling.”

Her voice was rich, poignant, and full of promise. The slave lifted his head, bashful, and gazed at her.

“Mistress. Welcome home.”

She smiled and beckoned to him to rise. He took her furs from her. His breath caught as they slipped from bare shoulders and silk-covered breasts.

“It’s so good to be here again,” she said, taking in the familiar sights and smells of the castle’s main hall. “Are my rooms ready?”

“Of course, milday.”

“Good. Come with me.”

He followed her up the spiral staircase. Her rooms were at the top of the tower, where she had the complete view of the grounds she ruled, from the eastern village to the Forbidden Sea in the west. He averted his eyes modestly when she shed her long, crimson dress and sank into the brimming copper bath with a sigh of content. He went about his business while she soaked, setting her table and laying out towels and clean clothes for her (although her clothes always seemed brand-new, as if they were just created, woven from the fabric of dreams and memories). When she was ready to come out of the bath, he held out the towel for her. She stepped into his arms and he proceeded to dry her, patting the soft fabric all the way from her shoulders to her feet. She leaned back against his hands and closed her eyes, making the slave tremble. After she’d eaten, she reclined on a divan as he massaged her feet with scented oils. And then, if she was in the mood, they talked.

She told him stories of the lands surrounding them, of the mountains and the valleys, of the revelries in the village during the summer nights, and of the storms at sea. The slave, who never went further away than the village (and that, too, was not often), would eagerly drink in her words. He told her of the comings and goings of the castle, its languid everyday business. Not much, obviously, and not a very interesting subject for one such as herself, but she listened to him nonetheless, offering advice and fixing whatever little problems he had complained about. For such was her ability to change her surrounding with a mere focusing of thought. The slave remembered one time, a few years ago – years? Months? When was that? – when he saw her demonstrate her power most clearly. She was weaving magic in the dungeons while he watched, but stopped when she noticed his pained expression. He was not able to tell her what was hurting him so much but she must have felt something, for she sprang up and ran to the parapet. Arriving shortly after her, the slave saw a marching demon army, all teeth and nails and howling to the heavens with fell voices. It left a trail of death and ruin in its wake as it advanced towards the castle. The slave saw her stare at the demons in horror and disgust, and then, a heartbeat later, they were gone. All gone, as if they never existed. The burning village was whole again, the slaughtered bodies that fell as they tried to run were living and breathing again. He didn’t know whether or not she was a goddess. He didn’t think so. But she did wield a power that couldn’t be denied. 

Sometimes she had further use for him in the night.

 

She would usually stay a few days in the castle, walking in the gardens and sleeping in a hammock underneath the starry sky. Those days were the happiest of the slave’s life, because the gardens bloomed beneath her feet, the sun shone clearer and brighter in the otherwise rather bleak sky, and the love in his heart could flow freely.

These happy stretches of time were always short, never enough to satisfy the soul. And then she would go, she would always go, and the slave was left in loneliness and misery. He pleaded at her feet by the gates, thinking that the pain would shatter his heart into pieces, and she was always merciful: seeing his utter despair, she placed her cool hand on his forehead and whispered:

“Forget.”

The slave would momentarily relax and go back to his work, aware of the dull ache in his chest but not too bothered by it. She would come again, soon. This was, after all, her home.


	2. Chapter 2

> But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
> 
>    Assailed the monarch’s high estate;
> 
> (Ah, let us mourn!—for never morrow
> 
>    Shall dawn upon him, desolate!)
> 
> And round about his home the glory
> 
>    That blushed and bloomed
> 
> Is but a dim-remembered story
> 
>    Of the old time entombed.

 

The lady did not come for a very, very long time now.

When she did, she seemed bothered, angry. The slave was distraught by this, eager to please and comfort her, but none of the usual means worked. She rejected his ministrations and pushed him away when he tried to cheer her. For days and days she had wandered the castle aimlessly, darkening the halls in her passing and raising mighty gales of wind that enveloped the castle and the lands around it in coarse dust. The shrieking of the wind was painful as it wailed through the corridors. The slave, trailing after his mistress from a safe distance, was horrified when he saw her create demons and monsters from thin air, let them rave, and then evaporate them in an unending cycle of boredom and contempt. But even this reckless abuse didn’t seem to comfort her, because then, one awful night, she did something very much out of the ordinary: she called out a big ball.

 

The castle was lit by tiny lights that spun through the air like thick swarms of fireflies, dazzling the eye and mind alike but not illuminating anything. Strange, nerve-wrecking music filled the halls and chambers of the Lady’s citadel, played by clowns and mimes on broken instruments. The villagers, who suddenly found themselves there, were unable to stop dancing. They stumbled over the obscenely rich and embroidered garments their plain clothes transformed into, only to be flung back up to their feet by an unseen hand that forced them to rejoin the waltz. They were clutching each other in fear and exhaustion, some weeping with pain as their feet scrapped on the polished floor. Hours passed and blood-red wine flowed like water in the dark, terrifying place that the castle had become, spinning every head and filling it with phantasmagorical images and sounds as alcohol flashed through livid veins.

Sick to the bone, the slave watched his mistress walk through the hall. The dancers parted to make way for her as she passed, like a school of fish fleeing a shark. She was dressed all in black now and a silver mask covered her lovely face, mirroring the grotesque spectacle around her. Only her bare feet glittered in the gloom, white between the shifting shadows of her dress. She ascended her throne to view the mob wearily. The slave longed to rush to her side but found that he couldn’t move, his body numb as if in sleep. A clock began to chime somewhere, a deep, ominous sound. When the hour struck midnight, her whisper could be heard in the suddenly silent hall, pronouncing words that were just as gentle as they were deadly.

“Gone are the lilacs that surround youth’s innocence, and my crown is broken. I leave you now to Cordyceps and the Scavenger’s Daughter.”

The dancers’ crudely painted faces twisted in terror and they screamed, wailing in agony when the hall suddenly erupted in a whirlpool of dark colors and brief flashes of light. Then they were all gone.

The slave found himself sprawled upon the stone floor of the great hall. It was empty. He got up and looked for his mistress, but the throne was empty. Cold crept into his heart – did she leave again? And if she did, could she have gone without putting him out of his misery? He ran out of the hall, screaming for her, praying and pleading to find her, but she was nowhere to be seen.

Weeping, he came back into the hall, and then he saw them.

Crouching on the Lady’s throne were two shadowy figures, one slim and cruel as a knife’s edge, the other robust and powerful. Coming closer, the slave saw their slick, putrid skins and dead black eyes. They were more terrible than all the demons he had ever seen. They were Cordyceps and the Scavenger’s Daughter, he thought, horrified, cruelty and brutality made manifest in bog-body flesh. Their shroud-like robes rustled as they turned to eye him.

“Be gone, faithful servant.” Cordyceps’ voice was a poison that froze his blood. “Your Mistress has no further need for you.”

“I will not allow you to ruin her home,” said the slave, as calmly as he could.

The Scavenger’s Daughter roared with a booming, rock-crushing laughter. “Fool! It is ruined already. We are all that’s left of it until the end of days.”

“She will return.” said the slave, and strode away resolutely. The dark sisters would not take over the castle, not while he still draws breath.

 

*

 “Why is he still here?”

“Why hasn’t he gone like the rest of them?”

“A bad apple, a thorn in our side.”

“But he won’t last long.”

“No, sweet twin. Soon enough, he will be extinguished.” 

*

 

The slave remained alone in the castle, trying to keep Death at bay. He tended the few apple trees that still lived in the gardens, drawing water for them from an almost-dry fountain. Patiently he scrubbed away the dust and mold that seemed to be taking over the castle, and watched anxiously as lightning storms hit the towers again and again, tearing away at stone and mortar.

He was hungry now, too. Very, very hungry.

He stood upon the parapet as he did of old, his drawn skin seared by the hot winds. He couldn’t see the village anymore, as it seemed to have disappeared on the night she went away. The chasm at the foot of the castle was filled with monsters. But no silk-clad figure trod upon the bridge, no soft whispers of comfort sounded in his ears. Maybe the world was indeed dead.

But then, one day, a rose opened in the garden. Its petals, ruby and velvety, dared the waste with their dewy freshness. Weeping, the slave knelt before the rose and gently touched his lips to it, afraid to crush that last bit of beauty. It was the first sign of true life he had seen since the Lady left. Hope filled his pained heart, driving him to reenter the throne room where the creatures ruled supreme.

“You again?” asked Cordyceps. She was holding one of the Lady’s pet cats in her lap. The cat was dead, killed by the pale spores growing out of its head and chest. The slave felt his stomach clench and tried not to vomit.

“Where is she?” he demanded. Funny how it never occurred to him to ask them before.

“Gone.”

“Where to?”

“You know exactly where to.”

“Yes,” said the slave, understanding.

 “Die now, mite, and spare everybody the trouble. For you will never see her again.”

“I will find her and bring her back.”

“Then you will die trying!” shouted the Scavenger’s Daughter, her dank, black hair flying as she rose, towering above the slave. “You are not allowed to go there. She will crush you like the worm that you are, just like that!” she threw the slave down and, pressing her iron-shod foot hard upon his back, pushed his forehead into the floor. The slave heard his bones creak and grunted in pain, but would not submit. Even brutality had its place but it was not here, not with him.

“I will find her, no matter the punishment I get.” he uttered, picking himself up inch by inch and straightening his back against that terrible pressure. “This can on go no longer.”

“Suit yourself. We will not weep over your carcass,” laughed the sisters, and the slave found himself outside the hall, its doors banged shut in his face. Sighing, he bundled a few belongings into a parcel and slung it over his back. Mustering courage he didn’t know he had in him, he went out of the castle gates and stared at the big, dead world around him.


	3. Chapter 3

> And travellers, now, within that valley,
> 
>    Through the red-litten windows see
> 
> Vast forms that move fantastically
> 
>    To a discordant melody;
> 
> While, like a ghastly rapid river,
> 
>    Through the pale door
> 
> A hideous throng rush out forever,
> 
>    And laugh—but smile no more.

 

Crossing the stone bridge proved harder than he expected. The once-smooth flagstones were coarse now and hurt his bare feet. Midway across his toe caught upon something sharp and began to bleed. The blood stained the stones and then dripped right through them, down, down into the darkness below. His moan was smothered in a thick blanket of silence, not broken but enhanced by the howling of the wind. The wind… was it truly just the wind that made such noises? The slave was not so sure anymore. Something else was with him there, something that groaned and demanded and shivered. It was the blood, he suddenly understood. His blood was mistaken for an offering which he, in his ignorance, did not immediately renounce. The unintentional sacrifice was accepted. And then they came.

The monsters in the abyss lashed at him with their tentacles and called upon him to jump down. Their voices were mesmerizing, filled with the black primordial mud that lurks within the human soul, hungry and greedy for death. The slave was not some hero of old, a sword-wielding giant like those who lived in the stories his mistress told him during those long nights, when all she desired were the comforts of snow and hearth. Not that it would have mattered, though – the slave knew that not all foes could be subdued by sword. All he had were his bare hands and his mind. Forcing himself not to run, he stood and took a deep breath. He began to walk again in an almost dream-like trance, avoiding the groping arms and focusing his inner eye on the nebulous vision of his mistress for comfort. What used to be a mere minutes’ walk took him several hours but he finished it at last, almost entirely unhurt. Standing on the other side of the rift, he let the wind dry his sweat as he turned towards his goal: the west and the Forbidden Sea, where none but the Lady was wont to go.

 

He traveled for many days, navigating by the strange stars that still lingered in the night sky, and by an instinct similar to that of migratory birds. He was drawn to his ruler, pulled by chains of want and the basest need possible. He walked without resting, fighting demons with his bare hands as he went along, until at last he could see the forest. Beyond it, he somehow knew, the earth fall down in sheer granite cliffs to a stretch of glittering sand. There, between the remains of sunken ships that washed ashore in the nights, was her secret home, forbidden to all her creations. With a growing sense of dread in his chest, he started forward again.

Walking was becoming more and more difficult now, as if he were trying to push through an unseen barrier. His feet were leaden and his swollen head throbbed in pain. His lungs screamed at every step and he gasped for breath. Dizzy, he was eventually reduces to a crawl.

Five more steps. Two more. Just one. That’s it. The slave stopped at the edge of the forest and lay there, panting wildly with exertion and fear.

Time passed and the forest was silent. Nothing attacked him, nothing hurt him. But she didn’t come.

Rising to his elbows and clutching at a low-hanging branch, the slave pulled himself up and crossed the forest’s threshold, stepping between the trees. “Please forgive me,” he prayed in his heart. “I must do this.”

At first it was quiet. Then a wind rose, growing stronger and stronger until it blew around him like a hurricane and a high-pitched screech pierced his ears. He grabbed onto a tree so he won’t fall. Shadows gathered between the trees, blacker than sorrow, and then she came.

“ _How dare you come to this place!_ ” she howled like the wind, looming over him, her face contorted in fury. He felt the breath rush out of him as his body spasmed in pain. He cowered before her, crawled to her, reaching out to touch the hem of her dark, plain dress. She kicked his hand away and stepped upon the back of his neck, pushing him face-down into the soft, living earth. It was so unlike that of the castle’s withered grounds that he began to sob in earnest, wetting the soil with his tears.

“Please, Mistress,” he begged. “Please come back. The world is dead without you and all your people are gone.”

Her voice was still angry when she answered, but a thin tendril of sadness seemed to creep into it. “It is as it should be, servant. Why didn’t you go when I dismissed everybody?”

“Because I love you,” he whispered. “I cannot go anywhere but to your side.”

“You love me?” she laughed now, a sound so bitter that the slave’s heart tightened. She removed her foot from his neck and he rose up to his knees, fixing his gaze on her. “Don’t be stupid, Hope. You can’t love me. You’re a part of me, like my tongue or my spleen. Now go away and leave me in peace.” She turned away and started walking back to her beach.

“No!” he screamed, grabbing at her dress. She glowered at him and he let go, resting the palms of his hands on the ground instead. “Please, just give me a minute to explain. And if I won’t manage to convince you, please kill me. It will be merciful.”

She looked upon his sprawled, devastated body, so hurt and skinny and utterly lost, and her heart was moved to pity. With a sigh she stopped and rested her back against a tree, crossing her arms on her chest. “Go on.”

Suddenly he hesitated. What could he possibly say to make her change her mind? He saw her face clearly now, smoky and filled with sorrow and self-hate. She wanted to ruin the castle, he understood. She wanted to ruin herself to escape the pain in her life.

“I don’t know much about the world,” he started slowly, picking up the pace as he went on. “What I do know is the castle. It’s filled with corridors and halls, vast, echoing chambers and blossoming gardens. I know that when I walk around in your castle, there is no way of telling what will emerge around the next corner: a servant, a monster, a love letter attached to a bouquet of roses, or a ray of light coming through the stained glass windows, painting the stone floor in vivid colors. Your castle’s foundations lie deep, deeper than the abyss surrounding it, and are so much older than its mere darkness. You have so many different futures and possibilities, joys and sorrows and love, all waiting around the corner for you to find. Your pain breaks my heart, but it’s just dust in the wind when compared to your strength and endurance. Never mind what it is that plagues you, you would always be able to overcome it, and I will always be there to help you. That’s why I didn’t go away, Mistress. Because I love you too much.”

Did he manage to convince her? The silence around them continued undisturbed. Apparently not. Exhausted, the slave closed his eyes and lowered his head, awaiting the final blow. She will kill him now, he was sure of that. She was kind and generous and will not deny him this last grace. But then, through closed eyelids, he suddenly noticed that the light around him was growing. He opened his eyes and found himself staring straight into her face, and that she was smiling incredulously.

“Hope…” she whispered and wrapped her arms around him, gently cradling him on her breast. He lay there, drawing strength and substance from her warm body and mind, recovering. And then, when he finally had enough strength to raise his head, she kissed him.

“Let’s go home.”


End file.
